Long and white pickings of the litter slid past this old television set where filthy & famous flying objects affectionatelygorge themselves on civicsthe fool's camera, off topic, some gorgeous idea devoured,their own well-greased bravado and beautyto set Smith free from the mules of mockery of misery and forty acresof danger, democratically.

Society of the spectacle ain't without its icecapadesor pumpkins carved up for freightuntil writing clay poems in short raidsscattered along the glittering class loving then shooting on first sightsane pigeons walking the awful plankhands in nobody's pockets, nobody's like some promised quack on the run, we believe ourselves dutifully astonishedswooning at the slow taint of suicide songsentering nations now as the thief moonssimple courtesy to some frenziedGod of the dead licking steroids.

Hatred and phobias best in newsbest in show, framed for flightno time for sergeants or shirtless Jewsno cross-bearers, no Zen numbers, no holy waiverto rot this new perspective, only the icy pool of blood to spendwords in a book of terrorleft as Joe Mohammed'scalling cardto each of us who doubtwe're on the invitation listengraved by fourteen centuriesof lust wandering the sands of time'slast stand. Time is the detonator. Time is the fire, the flame, the scream.

Time in due time will prove itself the liar,or bring back lampshades made of flesh.

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Quoth the Raven

"Intellectual economics guarantees that even the most powerful and challenging work cannot protect itself from the order of fashion. Becoming-fashion, becoming-commodity, becoming-ruin. Such instant, indeed retroactive ruins, are the virtual landscape of the stupid underground. The exits and lines of flight pursued by Deleuze and Guattari are being shut down and rerouted by the very people who would take them most seriously."